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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26804659">epilogue</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetmilktea/pseuds/sweetmilktea'>sweetmilktea</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Miraculous Ladybug</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Indulgent</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:08:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>505</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26804659</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetmilktea/pseuds/sweetmilktea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>you were never his. he was never yours. yet here you are, waiting for a man who was another’s just before.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The clock was starting to set you off.</p><p>Of course you knew staring at it wouldn’t help time move along, not at all. But the wish it did was unbearable. He was only 30 minutes late, no biggie. </p><p>But no amount of picking up your phone to see a blank home screen, no amount of ruffling your hair out of a fidget, no amount of ticks from that damned clock helped soothe your nerves.</p><p>So what if he was late to your date—ha, as if. What if he was late? He had important things to do. Modeling, photo shoots, running a company under his fathers name, being a hero in Paris, he has every reason to be late.</p><p>Yes, that’s it. That’s the lie you’ll keep telling yourself.</p><p>~~~</p><p>Perfume. </p><p>It hit you as soon as you opened your door. And it certainly wasn’t yours, no, not at all. And his hair being messy along having a deep flush painted wonderfully across his face; blush be damned. That wasn’t your doing. And you knew whose it truly was.</p><p>Her.</p><p>The rapid lies pouring out of his mouth explaining his late departure—3 hours—all you could feel was a fake smile and a numbness. How does one get rid of that?</p><p>Tie it up in handcuffs and ride it.</p><p>As you bounced up and down, rotating your hips rapidly earning wails from the famous model and kitty, did you feel it. Not his pulsing dick, hot pleasure rippling for you as his gloved hands curled around your nub. Not the pure rawness of it all, building up and up in your core.</p><p>Envy. Jealousy. Sadness. Anger. Betrayal.</p><p>Once you saw him draw near a orgasm, you hopped off, earning a guttural cry. “Who do you love?!” you’ll never get the answer you want. Why are you doing this to yourself? Why do you keep letting him see you cry? And why now?</p><p>“You!” a lie. You slid back on his throbbing member, circling around in sloppy motions. “No! Who do you love?!” your resolve is breaking. He doesn’t love you. He never has. He loves her. Not your eye color, not your hair length, not your scent, not your false memories. He loved blue eyes, sleek dark hair, bakery scented welcoming memories. </p><p>“You!” again. You scream as you punch him, your hands shaking as he cums deep inside of you. Glossy, worried green eyes stare into your wet ones, as you finally break.</p><p>“I can’t do this, Chat. I cant go on with this, knowing i’m not her.” </p><p>With that, you slide on your clothes, new tears streaming as you open the door, glancing at him one more time.</p><p>One more time.</p><p>You leave. You’re done.</p><p> </p><p>Yet, you wait anxiously, the two hour mark hitting sooner than you wish. Your thighs burn, being destroyed the morning of. Your hands trembling, tapping against your mouth as you await him. And he doesn’t show, until three hours later. A new mark on his neck—not from you.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>oh this could never work. oh this could never end well.</p><p>i can’t do it.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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